I really love the idea of England being unaware of his best friend having sex with his enemy to be honest. England would find out and die right in the spot.
'I just told you France did this and that and he trash talked you in your back and you sleep with him???'
'in my defense, there was food and he offered sex. You don't refuse free stuff. Or that ass.'
England crying in a corner because he really didn't want that image. (Secretly find it hot tho)
I also think that spain for some reason would be all for it. His neighbours getting it on and coming to Spain for vacations not only improves the tourism but also is fun. His best friend and his older brother, you know how it is with brothers, you hate them but want them to have the best so he'd approve.
It's funny how we have so much to say about FraPort but so few people to say about them lmao... Just imagining these two men standing next to each other is too hot to handle 🤭🤭🤭
France + Portugal if someone asks them about this: I slept with him; is there a problem? Are you worried I might get syphilis or genital warts?
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Arthur couldn’t breathe. Flames danced behind his closed eyes as he fought for air. His lungs burned, but as he blinked open his blurry eyes it wasn’t smoke that scorched them. He wasn’t even in the midst of the burning street. Instead, he was squished between two warm bodies; Afonso and Francis. It would have been a nice wake-up call that he really needed if they weren’t suffocating him.
Carefully, Arthur wiggled out of the embrace to catch his breath. He looked over to ensure his lovers were still fast asleep only to find one missing. Had Ludwig even come to bed after Arthur, Francis, and Afonso turned in for the night?
Well, it wasn’t like Arthur was going to be going back to bed anytime soon, his body still shaking from the nightmare before. He set off into the dark halls in search of his missing lover.
Ludwig sat hunched over the kitchen table, a collection of papers splayed out and a mug in his grip.
“Have you been up this entire time?” Arthur asked, leaning against the door frame.
Ludwig straightened. “What are you doing up?”
“I asked my question first.”
Ludwig peeked over his shoulder. “Maybe I have…Now what are you doing up?”
Arthur sauntered over to the table, taking a seat across from Ludwig. “Nightmare.”
“I see. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really. I barely remember it anyway.”
“There should be some tea left if you want. Chamomile.”
Arthur smiled, giving Ludwig a peck on the cheek as he passed by him on the way to the kettle. With a mug in hand, he joined Ludwig once again, this time sitting beside him so he could rest his head on Ludwig’s shoulder.
They lapsed into silence, Arthur watching lazily as Ludwig’s pencil scratched along the papers. He should have been telling Ludwig to get to bed, that the paperwork would be there in the morning. But he didn’t. He wasn’t ready to go to sleep, and he didn’t want to be up alone.
“You two should be in bed,” Francis rasped, appearing in the doorway with a half-asleep Afonso lagging behind.
“I’m almost done,” came Ludwig’s automated reply.
Francis scoffed, marching over to the table and snatching up the papers.
“Francis–” But before Ludwig could get another word out, two arms slunk around his neck.
“Vem cá, meu amor,” Afonso murmured into Ludwig’s hair, “You’ve worked so hard already. Just come to bed, and we can all cuddle.”
“And what are you doing up?” Francis asked, turning to Arthur accusingly.
“Couldn’t get back to sleep,” Arthur shrugged.
Francis pursed their lips, eyes narrowing, but they didn’t press the issue. “Afonso’s right, let’s get to bed. We don’t have to sleep right away, but at least we’re resting. Together.”
“Let us finish our tea first,” Arthur huffed.
Francis rolled his eyes but let them finish. As soon as the last drop was drunk, he was shooing both Arthur and Ludwig back to bed with the help of Afonso.
Arthur flopped onto the bed, Ludwig crawling in beside him more carefully. Afonso pressed up behind Arthur, holding just how he knew Arthur liked it: a bit of pressure around the waist, nose buried in the crook of the Brit’s neck so he could steal an occasional kiss on the nape. Francis slunk halfway on top of Ludwig so he wouldn’t be able to sneak off.
Arthur couldn’t help but smile slightly, warm and cozy with all his lovers.
Ludwig was the first to nod off. Good. He had been having trouble sleeping, working late into the night, and overthinking everything he still had to do once he finally did come to bed. At least now he was sound asleep, face finally relaxed.
Francis followed not long after. Ear over Ludwig’s heart, the beat sending him off. He always had such long lashes that mesmerized Arthur.
“You need to sleep,” Afonso mumbled against Arthur’s neck.
“Yeah, Yeah. I’m going. You need to sleep too.”
“Not until you do, meu coelho. Can’t have you up and stressing.”
A light blush spread across Arthur’s face. Afonso kissed up and down his neck turning Arthur’s limbs into goo. He didn’t know if he wanted to curse his Portuguese lover out because how dare he know all of his weaknesses or if he should inch a little closer and willingly melt in Afonso’s warmth.
But sleep gave him his answer: a quiet acceptance of the affection he so desperately craved and now got without so much as a word. It didn’t take him long before the warmth lulled him back to sleep.
Arthur being an insufferable brat during pirate times boasting about his Great British Empire until Portugal and France get tired of his shit and fuck both of his holes while mocking him about how he’s not “so great now, huh?” but jokes on them cuz Arthur only riles them up to get railed in the first place
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With : '' one of us should probably say something. ''
(if Gerfrukport is too much I'll just ask for GerEng)
YEYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I will try my best but probably not get very far because i do not know how to do this whatsoever, they're really dumb of ass, thats all i can say. Also idk why but i really love writing requests, theyre fun, also this will probabmy become a multi chapter because t h e m.
Internally Germany was having a freakout Platonic, totally platonic, nothing more, it’s not like i like these three asleep on me not letting me move, Arthur snuggling up to me and mumbling adorably, not romantic, he is just a friend. Francis’s hair is really soft, really really soft and warm and his skin is so smooth, i love him, as a friend of course. Portugal, he looks so much like Spain but without the laziness, though he is still calm, teasing and very very... attr- HES A FRIEND NOTHING MORE.
Arthur and Joao were both still asleep, but unbeknownst to Ludwig, Francis was awake and tuning into his quiet mutterings of homosexuality and trying his hardest not to smile. Really he was bad at this, somehow worse than Arthur at accepting romantic attraction, though only by a small margin, i mean it did take literal centuries for him to come to terms with possible attraction for him and Portugal, and now Germany was realsing that what they were doing cant be considered platonic by any stretch of the imagination, and seeing Ludwig in a gay panic was something Francis would pay to see.
Francis then had a scandalous idea, one that would no doubt leave Ludwig in a blubbering mess of German cuss words and endearments.
To himself he thought Should I say something, because somebody needs to, or should i kiss him and answer his questions later.
Ovbiously he chose the latter option and seemingly out of nowhere kissed Ludwig on the cheek, it was a cheeky and relatively chaste kiss, though that did not stop Ludwig becoming bright red and flustered, mumbling incoherent german phrases.
Francis did it again, this time on his mouth, soft and sensual, seemingly exploring what his mouth feels like, strangely territorial yet protective of Ludwig.
Of course Ludwig had a but short circuted, many would have paid a price to see a look of pure confusion and bliss on his face.
During this, Ludwig had tensed himself up and Joao, who was currently sleeping half on him and half on Arthur, began to stir.
"O que...What are you two doing?"
Germany accidentally let a nervous chuckle loose, and after seeing Francis and Ludwig and them in their rather compromising condition, he smirked.
"Ah, so Francia you finally kissed him I assume?"
Ludwig squeaked out "Y-you planned this!"
"Of course we did, none of us thought this was platonic, Germany, we wanted to let you figure it out yourself." Francis teased.
"Yea, and you Germanics have a problem in seeing what counts as a relationship and what counts as just homies, I mean I was married to him for 500 years before he realised! You were also taking an incredibly long time, though fifty years is infinitely better then 500." To anybody else he would sound like he was complaining, but the other two knew he was not, instead they could tell it was said with a certain fondness that can only happen when you've knnown someone for 600 years and you've fought side by side in many more.
Arthur squirmed a bit in his sleep and Portugal remembered he was laying on the blond and probably squashing him quite a bit.
Francis was now playing with Germany's hair and braiding the small strands for some reason that no body knew, Portugal out of nowhere, sprung on to him and kissed him on the lips, quick and sweet, before going to the bathroom and refusing to elaborate.
And once again Ludwig was left with the blank screen of gay.
Somehow through some strange ability that the entire British isles seemed to possess, Arthur's the ability to stay asleep in the most chaotic and loud of times and look utterly adorable whole doing it had multiplied tenfold, or maybe Ludwig was just feeling soft right now, perhaps both.
Francis poked Arthur lightly, and when there was no movement whatsoever, Francis concluded that Arthur was soundly asleep, clinging to Ludwig so bad he was almost under him, but in his sleep he murmured something unintelligible but fond sounding, and in a moment of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, Ludwig kissed him. It was not much, a small peck on the cheek, but it was right then Ludwig realised he was in too deep to get out.
Pairing: France/Portugal, implied England/Portugal and England/France
Rating: G for now
Word Count: 1.4k for this part
One nation's musings on an old friend, enemy, and perhaps something more.
---
They were in Paris for an informal week of meetings hashing out some detail or another of an EU proposal. Frankly, Gabriel already could not remember exactly what they had done that day and staunchly refused to try and recall, half out of the fear that if he examined their day too closely he might find that they had spent 10 hours debating nothing, and oh, then he would be angry, he really would —
They were in Paris, and the crisp smell of the night floated through Francis' open balcony doors, bringing with it the soft rumbles of a city already curled up for the late hours, languid and sleepy. Gabriel watched the wine in his glass shiver almost imperceptibly as a car roared past on the streets below. Beside him, his brother stretched with the comfortable sigh of a man well-fed, before offering a small smile at their host.
"That was really good," he murmured, and Gabriel hummed in agreement.
Francis tilted his head in acknowledgement, absently swirling his own wine in his glass with one hand. He seemed distracted tonight, though Gabriel supposed they were all a little subdued, worn down by both the long day they had had and the long days that still lay ahead. Francis had invited the two of them to a simple dinner when he had found them lingering in the lobby after the meeting, and Gabriel, not looking forward to scrounging for takeout in the chilly Parisian night, gratefully accepted. He supposed he could have ordered room service, but who would order room service when Francis was offering to cook for them? And now, with his belly full of good food and good wine, he was debating whether he needed to return to his hotel at all.
Especially since Antonio had just dug out his phone from his pocket and, after staring at the screen with a slightly dippy expression, announced that he was going to head back. Gabriel knew what that meant; his room was right beside his brother's and — yes, two doors down from Romano's, which meant that either he was sleeping elsewhere tonight or he wasn't sleeping at all. He eyed the kitchen tiles idly. They seemed clean enough. Perhaps he could just curl up here, underneath the dining table. Certainly it would be quieter than his hotel room.
But, well. He and Francis weren't really that kind of friends (given recent developments, Gabriel wasn't sure exactly what kind friends they were), so although he was reluctant to leave, he wasn't entirely sure he could stay, either. He debated whether it was worth asking as he watched his brother get up from his seat, and after a beat, sighed and grudgingly stood up himself. Better to suffer alone than overstay his welcome and make things awkward. He should have gotten that pair of noise-cancelling earbuds Arthur had shown him the other day.
Mercifully for Gabriel's beauty sleep, Francis seemed to pick up on his woes. As they made their wandering way to the front door, Francis took advantage of a lull in the conversation to touch Gabriel's elbow with a knowing look and asked, lowly, "Do you want to stay?"
Relieved, Gabriel accepted. Antonio raised his eyebrows when he told him he won't be going back to the hotel, but was too focused on returning to his little Italian to do much more than shrug. With a few parting kisses, he left in a hurry — the only time he ever hurries, Gabriel thought a little uncharitably. But then it was just the two of them, and ah, what should he say —
"Would you like to take a bath, first?"
Gabriel blinked. Francis watched him, expression open and guarded at the same time. "I—sure. I didn't bring anything, though."
Francis shrugged. "You can use mine — I'll lend you some clothes, too. I can drive you back to pick up anything at your hotel tomorrow morning."
"That sounds good," Gabriel murmured, and then, "I'll help you clean up, first."
Francis did not stop him, so he trailed him back into the kitchen and took his post up at the sink while Francis collected the dishes on the table. With Tonio gone it was quiet between them, a little subdued. Centuries of things unsaid lingered around them like a housecat, occasionally brushing against Gabriel's legs and reminding him of their presence.
Gabriel glanced over at Francis covering their leftovers with plastic wrap at the counter, but Francis was looking elsewhere, seemingly lost in thought. Gabriel realised with a small frisson of surprise that in this lighting, he could just barely see the pale web of scars around Francis’ right eye, usually imperceptible against his fair skin or well-concealed by makeup. He had long guessed that the scars were from the Second World War, but knew it wasn’t his place to ask. Arthur probably knew, but he too said almost nothing of those years, something Gabriel often agonised over during those long nights when he lay awake, listening anxiously to Arthur toss and turn and sometimes stumble out of bed to vomit in the bathroom. During those times, Gabriel would hold him when he came back until they both fell back asleep again. He wondered if Arthur and Francis did the same for each other when they slept together, wondered if they found more comfort in each other because of the understanding they shared.
Feeling his own mood dim, he forced himself away from those thoughts. As he placed another dish on the growing pile beside him and pulled a saucepan under the scalding water, he reflected on how Francis had become noticeably quieter after the war. There were moments in meetings, even parties, where Gabriel would catch his Francis staring off into the middle distance, a nameless emotion in those timeless blue eyes. Of course, Gabriel had long known that Francis had at least one serious side to match each of his glowing smiles, though even this, Gabriel felt, he had figured out rather too late. The problem was that, even as a child, reading Francis was like trying to see through an Arctic glacier to the sea floor below. As Francis aged, the ice only got thicker and the ocean deeper. He remembered Arthur had once compared Francis’s personality to Daedalus’s Labyrinth — fathomless and ever-changing, with a will of its own that even it’s creator couldn’t quite control. It was this lack of control over his own mind, Arthur said, that drove Francis to pursue mastery over his expressions and body, the logic being that if he could not understand his own heart, at the very least no one else would be able to, either.
Gabriel scraped a dried bit of sauce from a saucepan and wondered if he and Francis had never quite gotten along because they were too similar — too afraid of being seen through by others, too afraid of themselves and what they were capable of, too afraid of being swallowed by the waves that lapped constantly at the shores of their consciousness.
He was startled from his thoughts by the feel of a warm shoulder against his. "I'll finish off here, cher, go take your bath," Francis said as he gently nudged Gabriel aside and took his place at the sink. Relieved of his task, Gabriel decided to do as bidden and made his way towards the bedrooms.
Francis' apartment was beautiful and well-appointed, with high ceilings and walls this shade shy of cream and hand-woven Persian rugs in a lovely, worn blue. Everything matched everything except for the paintings — they seemed to take on a life of their own, colours vibrant against the soft cream and caramel tones of the rest of the room. There were paintings on almost every wall, or else photos on the mantle, side table, beside the flower pot, each carefully framed and placed just so. It was not cluttered, per say — and Gabriel would know on that account, having often been accused of living in a shop of knickknacks — but it was somehow lonely. The faces and laughter and brushstrokes of all those Francis had loved were here with him, but they were also not, and there was no way to return to the time where they remained.
